


What Comes After

by OhThatJane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Denial, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Forgiveness, Free style, John and Sherlock are broken, Litany, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, moping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:58:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhThatJane/pseuds/OhThatJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't just forgive Sherlock post-Reichenbach but neither can he let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Comes After

It’s the cruelest of April when Mycroft Holmes rings the bell (a clue and a presage to what is to come, since he has never bothered to do so before) and John opens the door to find one of his men, an anonymous face connected as if by chance to a pair of strong hands, supporting a slumped (collapsed, lifeless) figure over the threshold without so much as a by your leave.

 

They half-carry him upstairs, the two of them, Mycroft even leaves his umbrella behind, up the steps, to the landing and up and up again and John looks at the backs of their necks, their straining shoulders and thinks So. So this is Mycroft making amends, to him or to Sherlock he does not know, amends for secrecy or for betrayal or both, taking the weight of his brother’s wasted frame on his shoulders.

 

There is bitter wind, biting, following their progress and John shuts the door and follows to the too-big-now-changing-becoming-too-small room again and watches impassively, hands clenching and unclenching, as they lay the body of the sofa, lips purple eyelids fluttering and Mycroft is saying something in a soft voice, leaning to his brother’s ear and then something to John, too, appealing to him, John thinks, but he can’t listen, not now, when looking not blinking is the main affair happening here.

 

He watches them exit and walks with bare feet to the kitchen. Puts the kettle on and does not, absolutely does not, clutch the cold corner of the sink, does not breath through clenched teeth trying to make sense of this. Not dead, Mycroft said, not dead then. Of course he isn’t surprised, not really, this being one of the possibilities of what had happened that day when all his life came falling down in front of Bart’s, making contact with the pavement with a sickening crunch and an inevitability that never failed to shock him by its sheer prosaicism. The few seconds it took to leave his life in pieces, now turning to be a stunt after all, a death-defying act made for who knows what reasons forcing John into a contemplation of realities, a reconsidering of the future.

 

He’s not angry when he makes it back to the prone figure, not angry just yet. He might be if Sherlock ever opens his eyes, if he speaks. He might be angry then because he doesn’t want to hear it. The explanation, the sounds creating pictures behind his eyelids, the I had to, John, and It’s all over now, the I’m fine, really, just a few cuts and bruises, but more importantly an overall exhaustion of the frame, John, this transport, it really isn’t the thing, doesn’t do. And then John would be expected to ask questions, and hear them all answered in a level, logical, and oh so cold voice and maybe then he’d be forced to let go of his anger in the face of this, in the face of one event following another in an inevitable succession of necessities. Logic, John, the one thing that matters, why should you waste your time on feelings, it doesn’t even matter now, I’m back, I’ve made it and by this one fact I have erased all the time in-between as if it never were, why can’t you do the same?

 

Sherlock shifts and mumbles something into the coverlet and John thinks, nonsensically, Should have changed it, before, should have stacked up the fridge, cleaned the bathroom, made the bed if it’s about to be used again, should do it now, perhaps. He has time after all, the pills they put into Sherlock, force-fed him more likely, will have knocked him out for a few hours at least, but he thinks if he does these things he’s going to unleash something rising inside of him, something enormous and ugly just now raising its head. As he watches the slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s breathing, so infuriatingly calm, it’s as if his own insides are burning. And so he does the one thing he can, the one sensible thing, he stops looking, as if by doing that he could deny the indisputable presence of the body on the sofa, could make it disappear at least for a time while he sorts out the undeniable in his head and accepts it. That Sherlock’s back, as if he never left or went on a holiday and came back a little bruised, nothing to be concerned about. And he’s sorry, so sorry, or wasn’t that what Mycroft said before he left. Sorry. Two syllables and after they’re said he’s supposed to forgive the months, years of absence.

 

John needs to buy himself time, time for acceptance and for a plausible denial of what is happening here, time away from the thoughts that poison his stomach and sicken him in turn. And so he stops looking, walks upstairs to his bed, shuts his eyes and sets his mind adrift.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He wakes up an interminable time later, blinks his way into the cold light of the morning and for a time he hovers at the threshold of consciousness, colour swimming behind his eyelids. Then he hears it again, the crash from downstairs which must have woken him up, shaken him back to a state of being alive and hasn’t he missed this, being woken up by a ghost.

 

He shrugs on a robe and walks down the stairs to see Sherlock by the sink (will he ever get used to the sight again), turning saying Would you like some tea, John? and Sorry I’ve made such a mess, while John tries to reason this out with experience, to cast back to a moment when Sherlock has _ever_ done this before only to find that burning sensation, in that place which used to be hollow and has now taken it upon itself to be filled by he knows not what, rising inside of him again. 

 

What he should do, has to do, is nod politely and accept that which Sherlock has never willingly offered before, to go with the ploy that nothing had happened, that Sherlock never left and this is just another morning in an endless succession of mornings such as this where a bruised, broken man offers him tea and looks at him searchingly, reading his secrets through the medium of his eyes. That’s what’s required in their struggle back toward normalcy or whatever equivalent of it they had back in the days when they could still call themselves Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, joined inseparably by a conjunction. What he really wants to do is lash out, shout maybe, maybe to try to break that impassive face even more than it’s already broken, to smash the counterfeit of everydayness he sees there. But that’s no matter.

 

He accepts the tea without really knowing, hands enclosing the circle of warmth and careful, oh so careful not to make hands, fingers touch and Sherlock asks Are you alright, John? Talk to me, and John thinks suddenly, terribly, that there really might be nothing to say. Or possibly that all Sherlock has to say, can say, can never be the sum of what really happened, and can certainly never be a palliative to his ache. How could you have left me? he wants to ask but instead finds himself saying commonplaces about journeys and weather and I hope it doesn’t hurt you too much, Sherlock, not like you’ve hurt me, and suddenly finds himself on his feet, Sherlock’s marble, cool face livid, hands like irons gripping his arms shaking him, voice a quiver of vibration breaking through the air, designed to break through any and all defenses John might have built to withstand it.

 

Don’t, is what John hears because he wants to say it himself, any interdiction that would save him from having to listen to that voice, barely restrained, alive with something John doesn’t want to name, Don’t make this difficult, John, I had to, hasn’t Mycroft explained the three men the three bullets, all of that circumstance leading to one inevitable choice, and choice it was, John, though not the one I would have liked to make, not the one I had hoped for. This is the why, which you have to accept because as much as I might wish it were different this is the only why I can offer. The how now, John, listen, and John looks up to Sherlock’s face, really looks now, strangely changed and yet undeniably his own and thinks what Sherlock is saying really, is a plea for forgiveness such as a man might wish for when he’s come home. Leave it to Sherlock to ask for what has to freely be given, to demand that which John just can’t give.

 

But the hurt in that voice, the vocal manifestation of which is but a shadow of a shadow, designed to overcome and persuade, that leaves him defenseless, has to be escaped before it breaches. And so he steps back, shakes the twin points of warmth encircling his arms, digging into the bone and says I want you gone by the time I come back, turns, walks down the seventeen steps and leaves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Streets are a sea of strangers, a multitude of different-sized colourful fish. He makes his way through it and he tries not to breathe, air rattling on the insides of his lungs. This is his pride and he knows it, his pride making him refuse, chase away what he’d been needing, holding onto, wanting with a desperate ache for months and weeks. What good is it to hide behind righteousness, to say he or I have deserved this, we had this coming from the start, from the point we became more than two separate beings, more than we’d ever hoped we could be. He walks by the river, clouds pregnant with rain starting to weep as he averts his eyes even from the ghost of the sun.

 

When he comes back, Sherlock is gone, any latent presence of him erased, made off with as if it never were. At least now John has his numbness again and that he can deal with, who knows what he’d have done had he found that face inches away from his again, the eyes burning a hole in his skin, nails leaving indentations and bruises which can’t be endured.

 

He spends the day ignoring the growing number of calls, the I was counting on you, Dr Watson and Is he really back, did you know all this time? the endless mass of unmeaning. If some are from Sherlock he makes a point of not knowing, ignores the tap tapping of Mrs. Hudson, the care-laden voice asking Would you like to talk, John? I didn’t know either, I swear, as if it mattered who knew and who didn’t, who’d suspected and who’d been duped. As he goes through the list of patients the next day he starts to think though, devise a plan of action he’s required to take, the ringing of his phone just another thing he can, must ignore.

 

Lestrade comes after hours, dragging him away with an expression of disbelief unmistakable on his face saying He came by today, asking, pleading for a case, he looks terrible, John, all of which he tries not to hear. The well-meaning He’s been through a lot, can’t you consider…? and the one that comes after, What will it take, a drugged man in a fire and an underground bomb to make this okay? How can he ever say he isn’t cut out for this, for an easy way out, for a shaking of hands at the setting of the sun where Sherlock will take off his glove and grasp and devour as if he never wants to let go. When Lestrade leaves him his face is even more creased than before, the worry made manifest and John is just sick of faces he is able to read. Is it always like this for Sherlock, seeing all, knowing, he wants to ask himself but doesn’t. Pleading for a case, he thinks. Sherlock has never pleaded before.

 

When he walks back home he mulls it over, this new Sherlock in the place where the old one used to be, less like a hero or an invention of a writer’s overactive mind, and more like a human, a creation of his own wishful thinking. But what if all this is real, does having changed exempt a man from accountability, the excuses uttered and heard out pave way to forgiveness? Is there an existence left after absolution, the sensation of bliss in the twin souls conjoined by the fall that wasn’t a fall after all more like a cheap trick that magicians do; would having given it be just a step toward eventual gain? Yet all that he can think of is two wasted years and a slab of black stone bearing a name but no body, a sleek and beautiful memorandum of lies.

 

He reads the papers of course and so in the following months he hears all, Sherlock Holmes, the man with the coat and the hat and the mad hair, the new fad, the man who fought death and came back victorious, back now to save us all once again from the darkness. From the fear that is creeping out of the corners of our minds. And it would feel like a lie even if there weren’t the circles round Sherlock’s eyes, the tell-tale signs of weakness, which say beware human error, for if heroes existed, John, I wouldn’t be one of them, not then and not now. Especially not now.

 

Mycroft, of course, doesn’t give up. Nor do all of them, pressing oh so softly round the open wound, the name now unspoken hanging heavy like storm clouds suspended in mid-air. Sherlock texts him, invites him on cases, once, twice, three times, wants to have dinner to talk and ( _I am lost without my blogger – SH_ ) John is so close to giving in. A mid-June’s afternoon finds him crouched over a body while Sherlock hovers, keeps talking, trembles above him and a sense of deja-vu pounds insistently in his veins. He wishes they’d all stop the staring, waiting for him to snap like a reed in a whirlwind and holds on by not looking, not seeing the question posed by Sherlock’s whole body which does not need to be asked.

 

When he’s done he gets up on his feet and starts walking, doesn’t look back. But if he’s being honest it doesn’t surprise him to hear the pursuit, to find insistent hands round his arms, being caught and detained, Sherlock’s voice hot in his ear saying How long is this going to last, John, tell me, what else can I do? If sorry doesn’t cut it, isn’t enough, what else is there but to say I can’t do this without you, I’ve tried and I know now I can’t, but all this doesn’t change it, can’t turn back time and believe me I can’t count the times when I’ve lain sat and walked thinking just thinking of that…and then he finds a hot mouth on his and is lost.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Forgiveness. Is it anything like fire, a fire that cleanses? Because that’s what John feels, the fire that’s been there, eating away at him since Sherlock came back, but now it’s a different sort, or is it, can he really tell? Because there are hands on his lapels, traveling down and up over his body and oh that mouth shouldn’t feel this way, he knows it doesn’t really, that the heady feeling is just an attenuation of pent up, age-long desire. A quelling of fear. That marble body is no longer cool against his and if he’d dreamt about this before, _when_ he’d dreamt about this, it wouldn’t be, _wasn’t_ so real, so good.

 

But then Sherlock pulls back, breath ragged, hands shaking, pulls away and says Sorry, sorry again, how can he not know that that isn’t what John wants to hear? A kiss, a single act of courage and self-regard maybe and now is this them becoming different, transformed, and does it redefine who they were? And if not forgiveness, perhaps all that is left is a dignity purchased by silence, missteps then finally muted away into nothing. For words, should he say them, have the strength of a storm.

 

And yet: how can he ignore there is always that after, the continuation of life when _enter Sherlock, bearing a bouquet of flowers_ and in that hypothetical moment John just can’t any more, and kisses and kisses, all that grief goes away? The two years of waiting, and he realizes here, now, that’s what he’s been doing, they should not be made longer by withholding, by doubt. Leap of faith and a burning of bridges is all that he has, a handshake and a life with or without Sherlock beckoning, turning…just so.

 

And so turning, he braces, hell he was a soldier, sets his teeth and (Yes, of course, I forgive you) there is that look on Sherlock’s face he wouldn’t trade for the whole wide world and says Yes.

 

Yes to all that comes after.

 

 Yes.

 

_-FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that the style in which this was written will alienate a lot of people, but I guess I just needed to write it like this. I know, this is a sorry-ass excuse. Maybe I've just been reading too much Faulkner. Not betad because I'm scared of what a beta might say. Also, this should be said in case there is any further language weirdness, English is not my native language.
> 
> I nevertheless hope someone will find some enjoyment in this and maybe read to the end to see these notes: :)
> 
>  
> 
> it’s the cruelest of April: an allusion to The Wasteland
> 
> a drugged man in a fire and an underground bomb: for those who haven’t seen it, this is an allusion to s03e01.
> 
> words have the strength of a storm: this should be of a storm wind, an allusion to Torgny Lindgren’s Merabs Skönhet
> 
> enter Sherlock, bearing a bouquet of flowers: an allusion to the drama format because Sherlock is a drama queen. :)


End file.
